And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
by heyjude-carryon
Summary: Sherlock jumps, John reenlists, Sherlock returns to a John who is more broken than he ever has been, and whose body had developed an unusual kind of coping mechanism.


a/n: there was a tweet, then this happened. No, I'm not sorry.

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**And Miles to Go Before I Sleep**

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John was laying in bed. Sleeping. Again. Sherlock supposed he couldn't complain too much... A sleeping John was better than a drunk John, or an angry John. Or a sit-around-the-house-just-staring-into-space John. And at least now he seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly. No nightmares had come to plague him yet. So no, Sherlock really couldn't complain.

Except that he could. He was allowed to complain. (Lord knows, that's what he's best at, anyway.) Sherlock was allowed to complain and rant and get angry and hate the fact that John was going through all of this again. And he couldn't very well take it out on John. No. John was busy handling his own demons. And anyway, it wasn't John's fault. It wouldn't be fair for Sherlock to take his frustration and general dislike of the situation out on John.

So he took it out on Mycroft, instead. Because Mycroft was there and Mycroft let him and anyway he could blame Mycroft because it was partially his fault. So he texted Mycroft while John was sleeping and the bastard was making his way up the stairs not ten minutes later as if he had simply been waiting to be summoned to Baker Street. As if he knew why Sherlock called. Sherlock didn't doubt that he did.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway of his room, keeping a watchful eye on John. When he heard Mycroft enter the sitting room (the top step always creaks slightly if you step first with your left foot, which Mycroft always does) he stood for another moment and reluctantly closed the door. John would be fine. And if a nightmare woke him, he would scream, and Sherlock would be able to hear it from his chair.

Mycroft was standing in the middle of the room, looking around. When Sherlock entered the room, he looked at him, leaning heavily on his stupid umbrella. "What seems to be the problem, Sherlock?" He sounded... patient. A word Sherlock used to describe his brother maybe twice in his whole life. Sherlock didn't know where to begin. He supposed that, technically, nothing was wrong. And he didn't need help. He was already perfectly aware that there was little he could do for John, other than just being there for him.

But he wanted his husband back. He wanted John. And John... his body was here. But everything else... Everything else was back in the war. Back in some run down tent surrounded by other men with the constant sound of bombs and gunshots echoing trough the air.

And Sherlock could deal with that. He really could. There were good days; rarely, but they were there. There were times when Sherlock would make a comment and John would laugh but the laugh would be hollow, and short. As though he didn't think it right for him to laugh and enjoy himself. There were days when Sherlock would touch John's shoulder, or rest his hand on the small of his back and John wouldn't flinch. And that, Sherlock supposed, was progress.

But then there were times when John would look up from his book and not remember where he was. He would wake from a nightmare and a stare at Sherlock with a blank, confused look on his face. And when it happened, John would ask questions several times and then he would leave Baker Street and walk around London. Sometimes he came back in one hour and sometimes it was longer. And when he came back he would be John again. Or as close as he could be to John these days.

(Transient Global Amnesia. Sherlock ignored the offending plastic pamphlets he was handed after the diagnosis and looked it up later when he got home. Transient Global Amnesia: "A sudden, temporary episode of memory loss that can't be attributed to a more common neurological condition, such as epilepsy or stroke... TGA can be caused by sudden immersion in cold or hot water, strenuous physical activity, mild head trama, or acute emotional distress." Which of course, in John's case, would be post traumatic stress disorder.

"The episodes occur in clear consciousness," another website informed him, "patients remain fully communicative and alert, and they often carry out complex tasks like driving. However, they are often agitated or anxious, and may repeat the same questions (mostly relating to orientation) every few minutes."

"Most attacks last anywhere from one to eight hours, but never more than twenty-four. If an attack lasts more than twenty-four hours, medical attention should be sought." )

And now Sherlock couldn't remember why he even told Mycroft to come, didn't know what to say. It wasn't often that Sherlock got stuck like this. And when it happened, it was always, always because of John. But it had never once been because I something like this. The cause was usually something so trivial, something so sentimental. Like how sometimes John would be wearing the right color jumper on the right day and the sunlight would hit him in just the right way to make his eyes shine in a way that would distract Sherlock for a few moments. It would make him tongue tied and unable to think for a few seconds.

But he'd never been stuck like this before.

Which is why he carded a slightly shaky hand through his hair as he took a seat in his chair and admitted defeat.. sort of. "I can't lose him." He set his hands in his lap and didn't dare look at his brother.

There was an unspoken agreement between them: no insults. No snarky comments or sarcasm. Sherlock wanted to blame Mycroft for all of this (He hadn't stopped John from reenlisting and this could have all been avoided if he had) but Sherlock found that right now, he really really did not want to fight with his brother right now. But there was something he couldn't figure out; something he needed to know. "I don't understand why he did it... He knows what it did to him last time. And he barely survived it; why would he do it again?"

"Sherlock..." 'Patient' was a word Sherlock had used to describe his brother only three times before in his entire life. But that's exactly how he sounded now. Patient. And maybe there was a little bit of pity laying beneath it, but Sherlock said nothing. "You left." He put up a hand when Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. "No. Listen. You blame me; at least partially- which you've every right to do. We both know I could have stopped him from going with nothing less than a phone call. But I didn't. And you can't help but wonder why... In John's mind, he jumped when you did. I don't think he cared whether he survived or enlisted because it was something for him to do. Something to keep his body and mind busy. And if he got shot one day, and wasn't lucky enough to make it through who was left to miss him?"

Sherlock studied his brother for a moment. "You've thought about this." he stated simply. Not a question.

"I talked to him."

That was not the reply Sherlock was expecting, and he didn't know what to say to that. Mycroft talked to John before he went off to war... About what? No doubt about Sherlock, but what else? And who did most of the talking? Mycroft and John alone together in a room talking about anything seemed like an odd thought in and of itself.. add to it the "death" of Sherlock and the weight of John's depression... There wasn't much Sherlock couldn't imagine, but he definitely couldn't imagine that.

"As for losing him." Mycroft continued airily, "You needn't worry about that. John had no one last time, but he has you now. In the long run, he will be all right. You were not here while he was grieving, before he enlisted, so of course you wouldn't know how he was then. But I was, and I do, and I can most certainly tell you that, despite his current condition, he has improved since you're return. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is difficult to handle in and of itself. Add to that a very much alive husband who's fake death you've spent the last eighteen months grieving? Can you really blame his mind for this twisted defense mechanism?"

Mycroft had a point. Mycroft always had some sort of point, but this time (Sherlock was a bit hesitant to admit) he was right. Had anyone else said any of this to him, Sherlock would have blown them off and stormed out to go and sulk. But this was Mycroft and if anyone was even close in intelligence to Sherlock, it was him. Sherlock may not fully trust him, but he trusted him with this. He had to.

Before he could reply, however, a scream pierced the thoughtful silence between them. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the mantel- four hours. He was getting better. Sherlock stood without a word and entered his room, where John was panting and clawing at the tangled sheets, trying to get them off. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed John's wrists with one hand, gently tugging the sheets with the other.

"It's okay, John. You're okay."

His breathing was calming quickly, but he looked at Sherlock with wild eyes. Sherlock could see the trace of confusion behind them and his heart dropped a bit. "Where am I?"

"You're in our room."

"I don't... When did I fall asleep? I don't remember lying down..." His voice was dripping with anxiety and fear. The back of Sherlock's mind noted how it was a bit less anxious than usual. But he didn't focus on that. He focused on John. Just John. Right now. Tentatively, he let his fingers entwine with John. Some days, affection was good. Some days it made John retreat even further into that dark corner of his brain that even Sherlock couldn't get to. Today, John let him do it, but Sherlock wasn't exactly sure it the the calming effect it had in the past.

"It's okay, John. That you don't remember. It's okay."

"Where am I?"

What did it mean, that Sherlock knew what John was going to ask before he asked it? What did it mean that he was beginning to get used to it? This shouldn't be something that either of them had to get used to. This was not part of the dynamic that was SherlockandJohn. This was not them. And no matter how much Sherlock was used to this routine, he thought he would never, ever get used to the way John looked right now. The way he sounded. This was not his John. This was not his husband. And, despite himself, part of Sherlock was beginning to think he would never have his husband back. Not the way he used to be.

"You're at Baker Street. You fell asleep about four hours ago, and now you're awake. It's almost two in the afternoon."

The hollow look in John's eyes deepened. "There was... screaming." He was silent for a moment. Sherlock didn't prod. "It was so loud and it wouldn't stop..." his voice cracked and Sherlock pulled him against his chest. John sagged into him, accepting the comfort. Needing it. Sherlock held him as tight as he dared and carded his fingers through John's damp hair. They stayed like that for a few moments. Longer than usual, Sherlock was sure. And for a second, it was easy to believe that everything was back to normal. That everything was fine. And then John stiffened slightly and pulled away and looked at Sherlock with confusion.

"Sherlock?"

* * *

John's attack (as Sherlock had taken to calling it in his mind) lasted two hours. This time, John didn't go for a walk. They stayed sitting in the middle of their double bed and talked. John asked questions that he'd already voiced and Sherlock answered them patiently. And then John managed to fall asleep and Sherlock risked leaving the room to put on a kettle of tea and when he returned to John ten minutes later, he had awoken and was perfectly fine.

Lestrade called with a case not long after that, and Sherlock was hesitant to take it. But John was fine and insisted they have a look at the crime scene. Sherlock could see how determined he was to act like everything was fine. To try to get back to that SherlockandJohn dynamic that they were both striving for. And Sherlock figured that if John wasn't worried, he shouldn't be, either, and he supposed that he couldn't stop John from doing anything, anyway, so they hailed a cab and made their way to the address Lestrade had texted them.

And everything was fine. John diagnosed and Sherlock deduced and John smiled slightly when Sherlock offended Anderson (quite cleverly) enough to make the man stop out of the room in frustration. Lestrade asked stupid questions and Sherlock was _sure _he heard John chuckle ever so slightly at the answer he gave. And if John took a moment too long to respond to a comment, or answered a question a bit distractedly... well. No one commented. Because this was as close to normal as they could get right now, and both John and Sherlock would take whatever type of normalcy that was thrown their way without hesitation.

Which is how ten o'clock found them both slightly beaten and chasing the suspect (_completely guilty; "It's obvious, just look at his boots! And the jewelry she was wearing.."_) through the streets of London. And Sherlock was reminded (painfully) of the first time he and John had done this. By the time they had caught him (_Erik? Evan? Whatever, it doesn't matter.)_ it was almost half past eleven and they were standing in the middle of some warehouse in West Wickham. Elli (?) was pointing a gun steadily to a panting John and apparently didn't know (_this is good; we have the upper-hand, here_) that John had his gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

"Doctor Watson, how nice it is to finally meet you." Ezra (_Yes, it's definitely Ezra..) _sneered John's name in a way that made Sherlock want to punch him. He stayed still. He was approximately three and half feet away from John (_Standing close to him would make defending themselves complicated; this was easier) _and five feet away from Ezra. He risked a quick glance at John before fixing them back on their suspect. He needed to be able to calculate. He had to stay focused. Ezra lowered his gun and held it loosely, casually, in his hand and started pacing slightly. Three steps to the left, turn around, five steps to the right, turn around, stop at the spot between Sherlock and John; repeat. As he spoke, he did so with the impression of curious questioning, but laying beneath that was the tone of a well rehearsed, thought out speech. Carefully punctured and in time with his steps.

"I've heard a lot about you... oooh, yes. Very interesting stuff, I've heard. I wonder... is it all true? The selfish husband, resurrected after a year and a half.. well, I can see with my own eyes that's true. But what of everything else, hmm?" The gun was held loosely in his hand, and Sherlock was already registering the ways he could, oh so simply disarm him. He didn't like the way this guy was talking. "There are rumors, see- a large list of rumors at that- but rumors nonetheless. Well, you know what they say about rumors and assuming... But I wonder, if any of it is true? The grapevine is long and tangled but sometimes, a well harvested grape does fall through.

"You see, rumor has it that you, John Watson, came home from the war a broken man. And rumor has it, you have certain... how should we put it?... triggers. Ah, yes, triggers... That's a good word, don't you think? And appropriate for this situation, yes?" He motioned to the gun in his hand. Sherlock's breath caught slightly in his chest. Triggers? What the hell was this guy talking about? Nightmares were the trigger for John's attacks. That was all... All they knew of, anyway. How could this stranger know anything that Sherlock himself didn't? Surely he wasn't just reaching out a limb here?

"So I wonder, how bad would your little condition get if I did... this." Before Sherlock or John could move, Ezra pointed his gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet went somewhere into the depths of the warehouse- Sherlock wasn't paying attention to where, he was focused on John. John, who flinched violently when the shot had rung out. When Ezra shot again (and again, John flinched) Sherlock realized what he was doing. John's trigger was his nightmares. Nightmares of war. War that was filled with bullets and bombs exploding. John had not fired a gun since he'd been back, had not been around anyone else who would have had the means to fire one.

"Your husband is dead, John! Sherlock is dead! The dead don't come back to life!" He was laughing hysterically and he just kept shooting. Surely he should have been out of bullets by now? Sherlock stood, frozen. He had absolutely no idea what to do. If he could even do anything... "John..." Sherlock's voice was drowned out by three more bullets finding their way to the ceiling. It all happened quickly- pieces of splintered wood and dust fell between them and another bullet flew. John started screaming a mantra of "Stop it! No! Stop!" Ezra laughed maniacally. His smile widened, but his eyes dimmed as another shot rang through the air. He fell quickly and Sherlock knew he was dead before he had even hit the ground.

Time froze for a second as the last shot continued echoing off the walls. John was panting. Sherlock turned slowly to look at him, and found John staring at with a blank look on his face. Confusion and disbelief crept into his eyes and for the hundredth time that day, Sherlock felt his heart skip a few beats. "John..."

John shook his head and pointed the gun at Sherlock. "Who are you?"

"John... It's me. It's Sherlock."

He shook his head again, more frantically this time. His scream rang out like the bullets had just a minute ago. "No! _No! _Sherlock is _dead! _He's dead! _Who are you?_"

Panic flooded through Sherlock. Before, John's attacks were simple. He'd forget thing that happened just a few hours ago, or sometimes even a day. But Sherlock had returned four months ago, and John didn't remember him at all. Thought he was some kind of ghost or hallucination. This was something he was not prepared to deal with. This was something he didn't know how to handle. He took a hesitant step forward. John's grip on the gun tightened, and Sherlock stopped. His entire body was tense and alert; his veins flooding with adrenaline "You really... You really don't remember me?" He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"I'm your husband, John... Put the gun down. Please..."

John tensed and his grip tightened even more upon the gun. His knuckles were white, and his face was red. Pure terror shone in his eyes. "You're lying! You're dead!"

The sound of the bullet surprised them both and Sherlock's body was immediately filled with a red hot kind of pain. His breath was stolen from his lungs as he dropped first to his knees, and to the concrete floor with John's name, unspoken, upon his dried lips.

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Oops.

xxx


End file.
